


the last picture show

by paperclipbitch



Series: femslash100 drabbles [47]
Category: Bad Blood - Taylor Swift (Music Video)
Genre: Community: femslash100, Exes, F/F, Femslash Drabbletag 6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-14
Updated: 2015-10-14
Packaged: 2018-04-26 08:36:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4998028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperclipbitch/pseuds/paperclipbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Origin stories are the <i>worst</i>, seriously.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the last picture show

**Author's Note:**

> Written for **femslash100** 's drabbletag, for the prompt _villain_.

“I think,” Arsyn says, sharp bright eyes, “that in your head, you just need an enemy. Someone to be the bad guy.”

“You kicked me out of a _window_ ,” Catastrophe replies.

Arsyn makes a show of examining her flawless manicure, something vampy and dark, and it wasn’t that long ago that those fingers were looped with Catastrophe’s, were in her mouth, sliding inside her with a breath and a laugh.

Origin stories are the _worst_ , seriously.

“I knew you’d survive,” Arsyn tells her. “You always do.”

There’s a skim of bitterness to her words; Catastrophe considers thinking that maybe she’s not the only one hurt by all of this before remembering that she was the blindsided one, cracked spine and a broken heart, and Arsyn chose this for both of them.

She tilts her head to consider Arsyn, who always glittered a little too bright, burned a little too fierce, and Catastrophe tried to make it work anyway because she wanted to believe she could harness all of that intensity and have it for herself, but she was probably naïve and, in hindsight, Arsyn never pretended to be anything other than what she was.

Sometimes she wants to ask if any of it was ever real, but she doesn’t want to give Arsyn that power over her ever again.

“You’re as good as saying that you know I’ll win,” she says.

Arsyn’s bloody painted lips tilt. “Maybe,” she allows, and then she’s gone, a click of heels in the dusk.


End file.
